How Do You Parent?
by Lily-liegh
Summary: A baby brings a whole new set of challenges. / Thiefshipping
1. Chapter 1

_"I know you're afraid but we can't hide in this closet forever."_

* * *

Bakura assumes creating a child would be hard. As Ryou blabbers on about all the finer details of raising a child, Bakura's mind wanders to how this is going to work. He sits cross-legged on the floor before a summoning circle etched into the carpet with white chalk. The lines are uneven and some places have slight holes, yet Ryou has ensured him that it won't matter. There are runes and glyphs etched inside, which Ryou has explained are protective charms and enchantments to protect the unborn child when he arrives. Honestly, Bakura feels anxious about the whole situation: If creating a child through a magic ritual didn't sound strange enough, it's the fact that this newborn is supposed to survive the trials of living _after_ being created.

"What only kills you makes you stronger," Ryou says, as if that is comforting advice to a parent-to-be. Bakura rolls his eyes and tries to hide his shaking hands in his lap.

"We're gonna be great parents," Malik adds with a flip of his hair. He turns to Bakura and grins. "This is a much better idea than stealing a child."

"Benevolent rescue from unfortunate circumstances," Bakura says.

Ryou hushes them both. He holds a blond hair and a white hair in each of his hands before he crushes them together. There are uttered words, too silent for Bakura to hear, and then the circle begins to glow. If Ryou is chanting louder, Bakura doesn't hear it over the sound of his pounding heart. It's happening. The lights in the room flicker like in a cheesy horror movie, only Bakura knows this isn't horror – it's rom-com and slice-of-life – so he sucks in a breath and watches intensely. A hand creeps into his own and squeezes his fingers tight.

There is one massive flash of light before _something_ is revealed. The something isn't very big and it lies in the middle of the circle among a pile of soft, cotton blankets. He can only assume it's his child, yet the mass of blankets terrifies him too much to approach. It worked … it worked? What if it didn't work? Bakura waits with bated breath, crushing Malik's fingers in his grip; next to him, his partner gives a pained glance to the bundle as well. Both of them don't know how to approach their child, so they wait for some awkward social cue to push them forward.

Ryou takes that role. He scoops up the baby in his arms, the long sleeves of his robe adding an extra layer to the mass of blankets in which the child lays. "Don't you want to see your child?" he asks. The compassionate doctor Ryou is: He holds out the child like a peace offering to Bakura and Malik. Bakura leans back; Malik leans closer and pulls Bakura with him.

The first time Bakura lays eyes on his son, he isn't sure what to think. The baby surely is cute – all sun-kissed skin (like Malik) and dark eyes (like Bakura) and tufts of blond hair (Malik) and _that grin_ (Bakura) – but seeing something so familiar makes Bakura's insides turn. He's not stupid: Babies are hard work. Babies are dependent and needy and helpless, and Bakura's not entirely sure that he and Malik are the dependable, provisional, and helpful parents this child needs. This child's not going to grow up with a typical family with parents that work typical jobs, eat typical foods, and do typical family things. Hell, Bakura has a hard time considering him and Malik a family, as it often seems like their relationship can still be categorised as friends with lots of benefits.

But now they're parents.

"Fuck," is the first word that comes out of Bakura's mouth.

"Bakura!" Ryou chastises, though it's muffled behind a giggle. Malik hears neither of them.

"My son," he whispers. He strokes the baby's cheek and rubs his thumb down his son's jaw. Bakura looks to Malik and catches the slight wetness under his eyes – he's not crying; there's just dust in the room and his eyes are watering and the lighting's all weird in this room.

"He's got your looks," Bakura says.

"That better be a compliment," Malik taunts. He grins at Bakura again, a beaming smile that makes all the uncomfortable butterflies in his stomach start fluttering again. "Our son got the best from both of us."

"Well, aren't you gonna take him?" Ryou urges. Bakura looks away, embarrassed, so Ryou carefully deposits the bundle in Malik's open arms. His partner looks shaky and pale, almost as if he has recently given birth, yet he happily holds the child close and presses his face into the covers. There is a slight squeal from the blankets as the baby shifts, then a whimper and a cry. Malik's entire position stiffens and he pulls back in fear.

"He -"

"He's probably hungry," Ryou explains. He reaches behind him for what Ryou had deemed 'essential baby items': clothes, food, and diapers. He hands Malik a glass baby bottle filled with formula. Bakura watches with rapt interest as Malik attempts to perfect the "feeding posture" he's been trying to imitate for several months. His right arm supports the child's fragile head in the crook of his elbow, while his other arm wraps around to hold the infant's body and keep the bottle in his son's mouth. At first, the child squirms away from the nipple, but then latches on quickly and begins sucking.

"You've had a big day," Malik murmurs to the child. Instinctively, his head bows to gaze down at his son. When he looks up, it's to glance at Bakura. He shrugs. "Well, Bakura? What do you think?"

Bakura crosses his arms. "I think he's spitting up on your shirt."

"What? Oh shit!" Malik pulls the bottle out of the baby's mouth as he begins to cough up the formula. A large, milky stain remains on Malik's t-shirt and cargo pants, and he attempts to wipe it away without jostling the baby. When Bakura only continues to laugh, Malik snarls, "Take your son, why don't you? He's yours too." This proclamation shocks Bakura back into reality.

"He likes you more. He's marking you."

"Well he's yours too. Hold him."

Bakura opens his mouth to retort, but Malik beats him to it by non-too-gently plopping the baby into Bakura's arms. Quickly, Bakura reacts: He braces the child's head with one arm while desperately trying to support the child's body at the same time. He sucks in a breath when the baby gasps and cries, and all Bakura can think to do is begin rocking the baby. So he does. In an awkward, jerky motion he rocks side to side, nearly crushing the tiny baby against his chest.

"Ishtar, you dumb-ass, you could've broken his neck," he snarls.

"He likes you."

Bakura freezes. "No." No, the baby does not like him. He can't be a father, not in this life or any other. The only reason he had wanted to be a father was because in a drunk bet with Kek he'd wagered he could raise a child to kick Atemu's ass, but that's it. It's not like he asked the gods to bless him with a child. It's not even like the gods would consider him a suitable candidate for parenthood. No, this is a fucked-up version of reality Bakura will not live in.

Very carefully, Bakura sets the child in Malik's arms. He meets his partner's gaze with a levelled glare. "All yours. I'll be back." And then he leaves.

Bakura doesn't look back to see Malik and Ryou's concerned glances, or to hear the slight gasps of his son nestled in his father's arms. He doesn't expect Malik to chase after him with the baby, his partner loudly proclaiming, "How's this child gonna grow up without his father? He needs you to be there for him. He needs _you_." Malik must've heard his words clearly – he _would_ be back. He isn't deserting his family. He just needs some time to think.

Thinking does help. Bakura settles himself in a tree at a local park, one just across the street from Ryou's apartment. The green branches shield him from the few locals that do pass through this area, and all at once Bakura can take a deep breath and relax. He closes his eyes to the world, to all the noise and distractions, and focuses on breathing, thinking, dreaming. It will be OK. He and Malik will survive. They have done some research, as if raising a child required a crash-course on how to be an acceptable, functioning adult. He and Malik probably failed the course, but maybe their child can learn from his parents' mistakes and be the model citizen Malik's siblings wish both of them could would become. Maybe their son can be what they can't be, and all it will take is seeing how far his fathers' mistakes get them.

 _I can't be a father,_ thinks Bakura. But he has to be.

Therefore, after hours of sitting in the tree and silently contemplating the disastrous, beautiful mess he's gotten himself and his family into, Bakura walks back across the street, flips off the cars who try to hit him when he jay-walks, and slips inside the apartment lobby. Ryou's apartment is on the sixth floor, so the entire elevator ride up is a jumble of foot-tapping, hand-twitching nervousness. He expects Malik to be pissed at him. He expects Ryou to be disappointed. He expects neither of them to be sitting in the kitchen nursing cups of tea like housewives.

"Already getting chummy?" Bakura growls, not bothering to get off the genkan. He crosses his arms and glares at both of them. Malik holds their son in his arm with the child's head resting along his chest. He's been practising these positions for months now, as if there are positions to holding child as there are positions for sexual intercourse. Bakura expects him to start numbering them – position forty-two, hold child upright and burp them.

"I want to spend as much time with my godson as possible," Ryou explains. He stands up to head to the adjacent kitchen. Over his shoulder, he calls out, "You can stop darkening my doorstep all day and come in like your part of this family. Tea's on."

Bakura rolls his eyes, but he kicks off his shoes and steps up to the floor. "Happy?"

Malik seems to sense his uneasiness – he's probably sensed it since the baby magically appeared in the living room several hours ago – so his responses are even more direct: "Come hold your son – I have to take a piss."

"Glad I can be of service to you," Bakura mutters, and once again the child is placed into his arms. This time Bakura is ready to support the bundle, and he curls his arms over his child. An innate sense to _protect_ this child overcomes Bakura, coupled with the warm and bubbly feeling that this is his _son_. Bakura will be damned if he starts smiling and cooing at the baby, but he can't help but feel happier with the child in his arms.

Careful to not wake the infant, he shuffles to the table and settles down in an empty wicker chair. Ryou comes by with a cup of tea drowning in sugar, and he smiles at Bakura and the infant as he takes a seat next to them. Without warning, Ryou's hand reaches out to grasp Bakura's arm, then stretches up to caress the infant's cheek. The baby is sleeping, head lolled to one side and drool dripping out of his mouth.

"You and Malik-kun need to decide on a name," he whispers.

"Malik already has one," Bakura hisses back. "And stop touching him – he's sleeping."

A smile breaks out on Ryou's face. "Someone's a protective father."

" _Someone_ doesn't want his child splitting his eardrums apart when he's awoken by his godfather's pesky behaviour."

"You're gonna be a great father."

This stops Bakura. "That has nothing to do with what we were talking about," he says. The thought of being complimented is already embarrassing enough, but about his parenting techniques? So far his fatherly displays haven't been any kinder than what Malik's father might've done. His inborn parenting skills will need a lot of improvement. But wait – Ryou was talking about the future …

"You mean I'm not a great parent now?" Bakura growls.

Ryou jumps to stumble out a reply: "That's not what I meant. I mean, everyone needs practice. No one takes a class about how to be a parent – it's all learning on-the-job and finding out what works best. Your son will be fine no matter what, but you and Malik will learn what works best for the both of you." He ends with a tired smile that seems comforting and reassuring.

The words themselves aren't nearly comforting enough for Bakura though. He stiffens when the baby cries once; instinctively, Bakura bounces his arms up and down to settle the child again.

"See?" Ryou says. Apparently that behaviour constitutes as a skill in parenting, and not a flight-or-flight reaction.

"Well," Malik says, stepping back into the room, "if you haven't killed the child yet, then I'm sure he'll be fine with you."

"There's support," Bakura deadpans. He looks up to catch Malik's eyes – they're still wet and wide, fearful and awed, and Bakura is happy to say that Pan has his father's eyes. "Oi, what'd you name the kid again?"

"Pan," Malik says.

"Pan?" Ryou echoes.

"Pan," Bakura growls.

"Like … the cooking pan? Or Peter Pan?"

Bakura chokes out a laugh, trying not to jostle the child too much. He'd said a similar thing to Malik when he'd voiced the suggestion. Malik does not find it funny: He crosses his arms and glares at Ryou and Bakura. "Neither," he snaps. "It's Ancient Egyptian and full of symbolism. Honestly, you should remember it, Bakura – he's named after you."

Bakura sucks in a breath. "I don't remember."

And thus Malik launches into the same narrative Bakura may have remembered from before. Ryou listens with rapt interest; Bakura shifts his weight back and forth in a pleas that the child will stay asleep. Babies don't seem so bad when they're asleep, yet Bakura knows that little Pan will be a whole different child when he's awake, alert, and hungry. According to parenting books (which he secretly read at the library one day), he and Malik are in for a long journey of sleepless nights, long days, and constant unease as they try to figure out what their child is communicating to them.

"So Pan," Ryou says. He nods. "It's cute. Little Pan's gonna love it at home."

"Shouldn't we actually take him home now?" Bakura adds. "He's gonna start thinking he's part of some polygamous, half-incestuous cult relationship."

"That's only if you keep putting thoughts like those into his head." Ryou laughs. "I'm sure I'll see lots of Little Pan in the coming days."

Bakura rises, once again trying not to jostle his son in any way. He shuffles towards the door, body stiff and arms tense. Over his shoulder, he whispers, "Don't count on it. We're staying home until he walks."

Malik gently pushes Bakura towards the door. "Thanks for everything, Ryou. We'll call when we need you."

"Take care," Ryou says, though his bright smile belies a thought of incompetence. He must know that within the hour they'll be ringing up his house demanding assistance for every sort of problem one could assume could happen to parents.

Once outside, it's Bakura whose energy spikes: He pulls Malik forward with the strength of an army down the narrow hallways and into the elevator. "We're going home right now and plopping ourselves down in front of Wipeout. Got it?"

"We're walking home," Malik states evenly.

"Fuck, why?"

"Because we're not taking Pan on a motorcycle."

"It's not illegal if you get caught," Bakura argues. "I'll just hold him tight and you won't drive like a reckless idiot. It'll be fine."

"We're walking home. Welcome to the normal life, Bakura."

Bakura can't argue – can't even raise his voice without feeling anxious for waking Pan – so he mutters several curse words under his breath and follows along. Yet the moment Pan leans into him with a long, slow breath, Bakura's heart melts and he can no longer be angry. He'll be damned if Malik sees the goofy grin on his face that seems to come whenever Pan activates his cute powers, but while Malik's admiring the sun reflecting on the water, Bakura can take the moment to let loose. Perhaps being a father isn't so bad.

* * *

By midnight, Bakura can infer that yes, being a father isn't so bad, but it's not the joy and wonder that comes when you first see your child. He lays on his side, face smushed into blankets and toys and spilled formula before his son who has yet to stop crying. It's not baby colic – that's not supposed to happen for a few more weeks – but something is wrong and neither Bakura nor Malik can figure it out. Pan had been fine an hour ago. He'd been laughing on Malik's knee, staring wide-eyed at his father.

And then he'd just started crying. Bakura had shouted at Malik for forgetting to feed him, but Pan wouldn't take the bottle. They'd checked his diaper, rocked him, burped him, laid him down in the bed, laid him down on the couch, taken him outside – and nothing had worked. Pan had been crying for close to two-hours non-stop, with only slight interminable breaks when he needed to gasp for air or choke. It was painful to hear and watch.

Currently, Pan is lying in his blankets with his tear-stained face smushed into one side. Bakura tries to hold Pan against his bare chest, but it seems to do little to help him. In the other room, Malik is looking up advice from professionals – what do you do when your child has a mental breakdown? Distantly, Bakura wonders if it's no different from how he might comfort Malik on one of his bad days – with space and time and maybe lying, not cuddling, next to each otter. Or maybe Pan is more like him and needs distractions to bring him back to reality.

"He's still crying," he hears Malik whine from the kitchen. "Why is he still crying? What else do babies need?"

Bakura doesn't respond. After a moment, he feels Malik settle down next to him, and bare skin brushes against Bakura's. Malik's body is warm as he wraps himself around Bakura and the child. Pan is between both of them. In the darkness, Bakura can see Malik's wide, scared eyes staring back at him.

"What do we do?" Malik whispers.

It frightens Bakura that he can't answer the question.

After another half-hour, Pan answers the question for them. In his fit, he seems to have exhausted himself so much that he passes out and falls asleep. As his cries still, Bakura holds in a breath and relaxes his arms. His son is asleep. The first night as a parent and his son had to fall asleep in tears. He feels like a wreck, a failure, a mistake for thinking that he could care for another human being. He and Malik can barely care for themselves, and now they're being entrusted with precious life that depends entirely on their fucked-up logic to keep it safe and healthy.

"This is an awful mistake," Bakura whispers to Malik.

A kiss is pressed onto his cheek, and between them their son sighs in content. "We did the best we could."

In the morning, it's another story. They both wake up early to Pan's cries for food and a clean diaper, and thus the battle becomes who will do what in their half-tired state. Neither parent has the energy to fight – Malik agrees to feed Pan if Bakura goes to put on coffee. Pan doesn't stop crying until the nipple is placed into his mouth and he's happily sucking away. Bakura catches Malik tiredly lean himself back on the couch, mouth open. He's still in yesterday's casual clothes; his hair is mussed and his make-up smudged from the hard night.

When the coffee is done, Bakura leaves a cup on the table at Malik's feet. Pan has stopped crying and feeding, and now glances around the room at his fathers. Bakura takes him from Malik's arms and holds him close, in the same way a moving person would hold a box of treasures. Pan is technically their treasure: he's what they've worked and are still working hard to create. Pan represents the pinnacle of their relationship, created from love and magic and weird shit that Ryou read online.

Pan is everything to Bakura and he'll be damned if he misses any of this.

* * *

But it doesn't get easier. Pan is happy one moment and screaming the next. Bakura and Malik try every strategy in the books, and when that fails they make up their own. Pan never seems to eat or sleep enough; his parents never get a restful sleep or a meal to themselves. After reading about sudden infant death syndrome, Bakura refuses to let Pan sleep in their bed, so he lies on the floor with his son and partner every night. When the latest articles say don't microwave the water for bottles, Bakura throws the microwave out the window in case it poisons his son.

Everything seems to be a no-no for a baby. Malik altogether loses it at their neighbours when they smoke on the balcony when Malik had tried taking Pan outside. When Pan chokes on his formula, Malik is the first one to rush to the phone, ready to call an ambulance should Pan start turning blue. Malik is also the scheduled one: He's already been in contact with a paediatrician – after some bargaining to skip the wait-lists – and is on-track with immunizations and check-ups.

Bakura has never heard of half these things, so trudging through the parenting lingo terrifies him. He won't show it, or at least the strangers can't tell, but Malik sees him fret at the corner of the room when Pan chokes or cries, or how pissed Bakura had become when they took Pan for his first round of immunizations. When the doctor tells them Pan isn't gaining much weight, Bakura snaps about how Pan won't take a bottle. When the doctor tells them Pan is colicky, Bakura yells at the doctor for poisoning his son with intravenous toxins.

"Sit your ass down," Malik had snapped. "He knows more than you. Deal with it."

But Bakura can't deal with it all. Each night he holds a screaming Pan, pacing around the room and waiting for his son to pass out. It's then he realises how unprepared he is. He and Malik are exhausted, starving messes. Neither of them have showered in days. It's been over twelve hours since Bakura thought of making food, though with Pan's attitude Bakura never wants to leave his side. Ryou has been over several times, but the thought of leaving his sobbing son with Ryou frightens Bakura, so he states that there's nothing to do outside and remains at home.

Pan makes Bakura feel helpless. Pan has no words and his communication seems unpredictable. It's a guessing game to decide what the baby needs next, and caring for an infant is the hardest game both Bakura and Malik have ever played. There are no rules and the stakes are higher than ever.

Finally, at the end of the week – a grand total of two weeks as a parent – Bakura can take it no longer. He shuts himself in his bedroom and sits in the dark. Then he thinks. His mind wanders despite its sleep-deprived state at the thoughts of how Pan will survive with them. He can't seem to do anything right. There's no knowledge in Bakura's mind about taking care of siblings or relatives – as if his past life would give him such memories – and Bakura's never paid attention to how families interact with their young children. He and Malik definitely aren't the candidates for parenthood.

The thoughts form a thick pit in Bakura's throat. What if his son dies? What if someone comes to take their child away because he forgets to feed him or take him to his doctor's appointment? And what about Pan's learning? What is he supposed to do when Pan starts walking and talking? What about school? What about his future? His kid's set up for failure the moment he magically appeared in Ryou's apartment, and it's all Bakura's fault for thinking he could take on this challenge.

And what is this doing to Malik? Malik wasn't on-board with children when Bakura first brought it up - _"We're raising a child up in this house!"_ \- yet if anything Malik's the more mature, supportive parent to Pan. Bakura … he's the dad who can't be there or who doesn't know how to be there. Malik probably absorbed some feely parent approaches from his loving siblings, but Bakura? No. He's lost in this realm. Reality was hard enough, but parenthood has its own unique challenges.

These thoughts torment Bakura for hours before he hears the click of the door. He smells the food first. It's been weeks since he's had a proper meal, and he instinctively licks his lips. He doesn't raise his head, yet the light streaming through the slit in the doorway has a shadow of a messy-haired person. "Hey."

Bakura doesn't respond.

"Hey, asshole. I brought you food." A pause. "Bakura?" There are now footsteps on the floor, approaching faster, becoming louder. Bakura sucks in a breath as they feet stop before him. He can smell the food now, but more importantly he can hear his partner's chattering teeth and feel his partner's concern. "You OK?"

"Where's Pan?"

"Asleep." Bakura feels something lean into him and he notices that Pan is with them too. Their beautiful son is fast asleep in Malik's arms, dressed in a warm onesie that Ryou brought to them when he learned they forgot to buy clothes that would fit a newborn. Bakura sucks in another terrified breath. "We did it," Malik says. "I know you're afraid –"

"I'm not afraid," Bakura growls.

"I know you're afraid … but you can't hide in here forever. We can't hide here forever."

"I'm not hiding; I was sleeping."

"Pan loves you," Malik says in that same voice Ryou said to him. It's as if Malik is trying to confirm that for himself – that Pan is capable of loving Bakura. And more than that, it's proof to Bakura that one more person loves him. One more person looks forward to seeing him in the morning in all his dead-tired glory and coffee-zombie grumpiness. One more person thinks Bakura is the best pillow to sleep on or the best entertainer. One more person loves him. To hear it so clearly verbalised shocks Bakura.

"Pan loves everyone," Bakura defends.

"Pan loves his fathers." Malik leans deeper into him, and Bakura can feel the little life between them sleeping softly. Bakura fears moving for waking his child, but Malik's body seems to assure him the child is comfortable between them. "Our son's doing great. He's starting to smile – at god knows what I don't know – and he's opening his eyes and looking around."

That's the least of their worries – Pan's eating and sleeping habits are as unpredictable as his fathers' and that isn't even considering his mood swings. But Pan is alive and healthy. Crying is communication – Pan is talking to them.

For the longest time afterwards, Bakura doesn't know how to reply. Malik rolls them backwards on the bed and deposits Pan into Bakura's arms. Bakura stiffens: Pan's not supposed to be be on the bed. However, Malik weight pulls him down and into him. His partner's chest is pressed into Bakura's back and Malik's arms wrap around him and Pan and squeeze them together. "We're doing it."

Bakura nods.

"And Pan's OK." Another nod. "And everything going to be fucking OK. Got it?"

Bakura twists his head back to push his hair into Malik's face. "You talk too much, Ishtar. Shut up and let me go to sleep."

"Fine."

And Bakura doesn't fall asleep because he's too worried of Pan suffocating in the sheets, but he settles down with his son tucked into his arms. For the first time, Bakura feels at peace. He feels Malik's warm breath on his cheek and his teeth on his ear. Malik's hands are pinching his chest, trailing down the scars they've both come to love. Bakura leans back to take it all in, sighing in relief.

They're both up within twenty minutes when Pan wakes up in tears, demanding to be fed once again. However, Bakura feels his energy returning as he bounces his son in his arms while Malik heats the bottle on the stove. When they both settle down on the couch to feed him, there's a lull of peace in the household. Bakura holds the bottle up to his son's mouth and stares down the glass container to meet the baby's eyes. Pan looks back at him with such determination and awe.

"He's looking at me," Bakura murmurs after a moment.

Malik, pressed against Bakura's side with his head nestled along his partner's collar, mumbles something under his breath. "… Of course he is. He sees his father."

 _Bakura. King of Thieves. Stealer of Souls. Partner. Father._


	2. Chapter 2

Pan grows faster than Bakura can imagine. His son's dark eyes hold such an intense stare that Bakura finds himself getting lost in them on lazy afternoons when he curls up on the couch to watch _Ruroni Kenshin_. When Bakura isn't holding his son, he can hear him from every corner of the room - "Dada? Dada. _Dada!_ " It's the only word Pan can say, and though he's experimented with other _sounds_ , this is the one that sticks. No Mama – everyone is Dada. Malik is Dada when he attempts to put Pan in the baby carrier, swearing at the multiple straps and layers and _why can't Pan tuck his legs in to help him._ Bakura is Dada when he tries to feed Pan his first semi-solid food, and Pan can't stop talking enough for Bakura to shovel the rice gruel into his mouth. Even Ryou is Dada when he pops by every other afternoon to bring food, toys, and whatever else he's managed to acquire.

Ryou is a saviour. He comes with supplies when Bakura and Malik are unprepared to meet Pan's most basic needs. He comes with supplies when Bakura and Malik are unprepared to meet their own basic needs while trying to meet Pan's. He is an uninvited but welcomed guest, always popping in at lunch time to lend a hand. Bakura can't imagine why an infant would need so many things, but this new life is something of a learning experience.

Pan never learns to fall asleep. Bakura and Malik learn to function on short naps and espresso shots which are taken at all hours of the day. The bed is no longer a place for sleeping – it's really just there for decoration – but there are small pillow forts placed around the house for whenever Bakura decides to flop down with Pan and sleep. Pan has come to expect the unexpected: he and his fathers have fallen asleep in enough unpredictable yet comfortable places.

Bakura learns there is no constant in childhood _or_ adulthood. The parenting books say to maintain a consistent routine for the baby, but Bakura can hardly remember what day it is, much less when Pan should be eating or sleeping or playing. Even though his own childhood is rather hazy, Bakura can't remember his mother thinking about the hours between Pan's meals, or the colour of his poo, or his energy level. When did this become a thing?

Pan is a constant though. At six months, Pan is all the joy and wonder in Bakura's life. The child pulls together all the mismatched pieces of his existence and ties them together with a ratty, old bow.

Pan is everything.

"Dada? Dada?"

Bakura rubs his eyes. "What?" he mumbles.

"Dada."

"I'm awake." A kick to the lump next to him. "Up, Malik."

Something resembling "up yours" is muttered, but Bakura mishears it when Pan begins shouting again: "Dada! Dada!" Pan sits upright in the bed, white hair mussed up from sleeping. He grins at Bakura and laughs, showing the two little bumps where his teeth have popped. _That_ had been a fun week of hearing Pan scream through the night in pain. It had only been Malik's over-protectiveness that had stopped Bakura from giving Pan a fair dose of whiskey to help him sleep through the agony. Now, however, Pan is content to feel out his teeth every moment of the day, complete with hilarious facial expressions.

Upright, Bakura takes Pan in his arms and shuffles to the kitchen. Pan is warm against his bare chest, and his son trails his small hands down his father's scarred chest while Bakura puts on coffee and warms up a bottle of milk.

"Dada."

"I'm making it," Bakura mumbles. "Hang tight." He shifts the child's weight on his hip so he can reach for a coffee mug. The clocks reads 16:00, but Bakura isn't sure how to read this kind of clock anymore, and a peek outside the windows reveals it's still daylight out. That's fine. The last time he woke up, it was dark out and Pan was crying for a moonlight stroll.

A pair of hands wrap around Bakura's hips. Malik leans against him and moans into his shoulder like a zombie awoken from its slumber. The height difference still pisses Bakura off, especially when Malik makes a show of bending down to his level, yet there isn't much he can do besides shrug Malik off. Pan, however, has an idea: he senses his father's tiredness, and with another proclamation, grabs hold of Malik's hair and tugs.

"Shit, shit, shit, Pan!" Malik cries, lifting his head up and pulling back. "Ow, kid. _Why_?"

"Awake and alert," Bakura says with a smile, and he pushes a warm mug of creamy coffee into Malik's hands. Malik accepts it with a glare and settles down at the coffee table. With Pan still in his arms and searching for other things to grab and pull, Bakura chooses to pace the length of the living room, drinking his coffee black and straight from the pot.

They drink their coffee in silence until it is time to feed Pan. Malik is the professional at feeding. He scoops his son up, rubs noses with him, and then relaxes the child in his arms. One hand is braced under Pan, fingers rubbing against his son's thigh. The other hand holds the bottle, and as he feeds him, Malik brushes his son's cheek with his free fingers. Bakura has never been able to master Malik's hold of Pan – he's nearly dropped him on his head – but Malik seems to be a natural at this routine.

The best part of the interaction is the contact. While Malik caresses his son, Pan's hands and feet are all over Malik. He grabs and tugs at his father's hand, then slips his hands under Malik's top to look for his other father's scars. Carefully, Malik lifts his son's hands away and holds them tight in his own. "Pan," he murmurs, and his son relaxes into his grip again. When Malik does look up to catch Bakura staring, it's with an all-knowing smile.

Once Pan has been fed, the rest of the day is up in the air and up for grabs. When Malik does go to work with his sister at the museum or with his brother at a local car garage, Bakura is left at home with his son. Bakura can never find the energy to go outside; seeing unfamiliar environments unnerves him, perhaps because he's spent so much of his life living in the Ring. Whatever it is, whenever Bakura takes Pan, they stay home together. Malik is the opposite: if he's in the house too long, he becomes anxious and finds any and every excuse to leave the house with Pan in the babycarrier.

Today seems to be one of those days: Malik has made plans with his brother. Bakura is always invited, yet there seems to be unspoken words and feelings about Bakura's participation in any family get-togethers. Though the older Ishtar siblings respect him, there hasn't been much communication past one dinner together before Pan's arrival and one quick visit per month after Pan's birth. It isn't that Bakura dislikes Malik's siblings – he couldn't care less about them or their "reformed" lives – but that he doesn't know how to interact with them. Rishid is impassive and Ishizu is calculating. Whenever they try to talk with him, they seem to talk _to_ him instead, as though he's a statue unable of expressing human emotions and maintaining civil conversation. Well, only one of those facts is a truth, but Ishizu has yet to give him the benefit of doubt. The siblings never seem to trust him, and though Bakura can say he doesn't trust Malik's family either, he does wish, for the sake of Malik, that things weren't so awkward between them.

After their meal, Malik announces he's heading out to see his brother. "Don't lose him," Malik warns, though he's smiling through his bared teeth. He kisses the top of his son's head, then leans in to graze his teeth along Bakura's jaw. "See you tonight."

"Don't crash your bike," is all Bakura can get out before the door closes in his face. When he looks down, Pan is already asleep in his arms. His warm body is flushed against Bakura's chest, and so Bakura walks to the couch and settles down. There's never much to watch on TV, but just the background noise helps Bakura relax. When it's too quiet, it reminds Bakura of other times when the silence was deafening and he was alone.

He's no longer alone. Malik is with him. Pan is with him.

Pan awakes minutes later coughing. In a panic, Bakura lifts Pan up enough to watch him cough up all of the formula onto the carpet. Bakura's stomach flips, not at seeing his son vomit, but at the pained look on his child's face. Pan chokes once more before leaning back into Bakura. He's exhausted, chest heaving with each croaky breath. Bakura rubs his hand over Pan's mouth to clean him, then rushes him to sink to strip him of his clothes and scrub the vomit from him.

"You're fine. You're fine," Bakura mutters, though to his son or to himself he's not sure. Pan whimpers against Bakura's arm when his feet are dipped into the cold sink water. Meanwhile, Bakura yanks his phone out of his pocket and dials Malik's phone number. Malik will know what to do. Malik will tell him all the things he needs to know about illnesses and children because his mind is human. Malik will be the voice of reason to remind Bakura that panicking will get him nowhere and Pan will be fine. It's just a simple illness.

Malik doesn't pick up.

Well there goes all the hope in the world. Bakura growls and redials. Again, no answer. Pan squirms under the chilly water, and with a loud curse Bakura pulls his son out of the sink and wraps him in a towel. Pan squirms, coughing slightly again. Now up close, Bakura thinks he can spot redness on his son's face, and are his eyes glassy? Is his breathing normal? Is his heart supposed to beat that fast? And what about his pulse? Maybe he's overthinking all of this.

Pan's only response is to shiver under the plush towel and lean closer.

 _You're fine,_ Bakura tells himself. He pulls Pan closer to lay his son's head against his shoulder. Slowly, Bakura carries him out of the kitchen and paces. It takes a total of ten steps to cross the living room, and Bakura makes it through ten laps before Pan begins vomiting again. This time nothing comes out, but the heaving sound Pan makes is far worse, especially when his tiny body is jerked back and forth from the force of his retching.

When he is done, Bakura wipes Pan's face once more with the towel before swaddling the baby close again. This time, Bakura calls Ryou. Usually Bakura refuses to call Ryou – it's too familiar to a plea for help – but now is not the time to play the hero and finger-gun his way out of the situation. Pan's health is on the line and he needs help.

Within seconds of ringing Ryou, his former host, picks up. "Bakura?"

"Pan's sick," Bakura all but snaps. "What the hell do I do?"

"Pan's sick?" Ryou echoes. Bakura growls. Ryou must've sensed his impatience, for his next words come out far quicker: "What are his symptoms?"

Bakura shifts Pan up to his shoulder again. "Vomiting maybe – I don't know. He's sick."

"I can tell you're worried, Bakura –"

"I'm not worried. He's not supposed to be sick. He couldn't have contracted an illness in here."

He hears Ryou sigh through the receiver. "It's not your fault –"

"I didn't say it was," Bakura says, though he sure does feel it.

He hears Pan start to cough again, and Bakura quickly lifts his son. The phone falls silent for a moment; the only sound in the entire house is Pan's dry heaves. When it's over, and Bakura can finally let out the breath he's been holding, Ryou speaks up: "Have you called Malik-kun?"

"He won't pick up."

A pause. "Do you want me to come over, Bakura?"

Bakura can't bring himself to say the words. Yes, he is feeling helpless. Yes, he needs help. Yes, Pan needs help and no matter what Bakura does he cannot help his son feel better. Pan is heaving on his shoulder and Bakura can only stand there and think of calling up others for assistance. It's humiliating.

"I'll be over in a moment," Ryou states. The phone line falls silent.

Bakura doesn't remember what happens during that time, but soon the door is being unlocked and Ryou, key in hand, is striding across the room. He offers Bakura a weary smile before stepping behind to get a clear look at Pan.

"He's rather pale. Has he had anything to drink?"

Of course he's forgotten about hydration. Ryou doesn't give room for Bakura to answer. He hurries to the sink and fills a bottle with water, which is then placed in Pan's lax mouth. The infant takes it in large gulps before pulling back and sputtering at the liquid in his mouth. Bakura expects the colour to return to his face, but instead Pan starts to cry.

"Did he just get sick?" Ryou asks.

"I think so," Bakura answers, though his words sound helpless. "Why does that matter?"

"Then he's going to be OK." Ryou's hand graze Bakura's shoulders with a gentle caress that does nothing but set him further on edge. Instead of taking Pan away, Ryou strokes his head, fingers running through sweaty, white locks. At one point, Bakura has thought Pan looks like Ryou – it's the peaceful expression, soulful eyes, gentle smile that he couldn't have gotten from either him or Malik. Perhaps Pan has taken his good looks from all three of them, compliments to his fathers' combined – yet by no means consistent or coherent – effort of child-rearing.

"Of course he is," Bakura snaps. Ryou continues to stand and stroke Pan. Bakura frowns at him. "Are you staying?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

Bakura falls silent. Eventually, his legs begin to feel sore and he moves back to the couch. Pan chokes and wheezes, but the liquids seem to stay down enough and the colour returns to his sun-kissed cheeks. Nestled against Bakura's shoulder, he dozes on and off to the sound of his father's anxious breathing. Bakura remains on alert at all hours, afraid to move or speak or do anything that might harm Pan. From the corner of his eye Bakura spots Ryou in the kitchen, cooking or cleaning, all the while humming a tune to himself.

Conversationally – after an hour of silence – Ryou speaks up: "Has Malik-kun's family seen Pan yet?"

"Once," Bakura growls.

Ryou pokes his head around the corner. In his hands he holds two cloves of garlic, which Bakura has never seen in his house before. "And?"

Bakura looks away. "And what?"

"Did they like him?"

"They didn't _not_ like him."

A pause. "It's not like they wouldn't _not_ like anyone. I mean, they're diplomatic. Sure they might come off as stern, but it's probably just because they care about Malik and his well-being, and maybe they think that his choices are not reflective of a model citizen, but that doesn't mean they dislike his choices. They just need to get comfortable with it." Ryou smiles. "Does that make sense?"

"Out, Ryou. Malik will be back soon."

"Tell Malik-kun I say hi!" Ryou calls back as he slips on his shoes and sees himself out. Bakura doesn't reply – Malik will know that Ryou's been here even if Bakura doesn't say anything. The warm smell of garlic prawns fills the house for a dinner Bakura always forgets to have. The dishes are done, counter-tops cleared, mess decluttered. It looks like there wasn't even a mess to begin with.

Malik does come home after an hour. Bakura sits rigid on the couch, holding Pan. The child hasn't thrown up since, but who's to say he won't spontaneously combust on their couch? Bakura's warning glances must have set Malik off, for he crosses the room in two large steps before standing in front of Bakura.

"What happened?" he demands.

"Nothing," Bakura snaps. "He's sleeping."

"It smells like vomit in here. What'd you do?"

Bakura tries to hide his anxiety through an eye roll. "Glad you appreciate my cooking."

Malik says nothing more. He takes Pan from Bakura, holding his son up to his face. Bakura knows for a fact that Malik's isn't stupid and that he must know Pan is sick. However, Malik says anything but that. He coos in Pan's ear and rocks his son back and forth.

"Good to see you had time to cook _and_ clean," he mocks, sauntering around the room to inspect both the cleaning and the damage. "You rarely even manage to get one done."

"Magic at its finest." Malik glowers at him; Bakura grins. "Ryou says 'hi'."

"I don't doubt he's been here," Malik replies. He stops pacing around for a few seconds to fix Pan's positioning. It can't be comfortable with the baby hanging from between his arms, face smushed into the crook of Malik's arm. "Rishid says 'hi' too."

Bakura snorts. "Good to know." he stands, cracking his shoulders and neck, and moves to stand behind Malik. Despite living together for months now and being partners, Bakura isn't sure how to reciprocate feelings, so he leans into Malik's side as though his feet are too sore to stand on. Careful not to wake his son, Bakura edges closer, until Malik's arm is snaked around his waist while his other arm holds Pan. It's an awkward position and Bakura considers pulling away in embarrassment, but for once he yearns for this touch and connection. Pan is safe. Malik is safe. They are all back together.

"Good job," Malik whispers in his ear.

"Shut up." Bakura grins, and there's a flutter in his heart that tells his everything will be OK.

* * *

 _Thank you to Clare for being my beta reader_


End file.
